Dumb Feast
by Cherry
Summary: "He watched her silently as she at the macaroni and cheese, the grilled salmon. Neither had ever been his favourite, but this wasn't about him."


DumbFeast

  
Thanks to: V, who beta'd and helped me with a few things  
  
Feedback: Please? Pretty Pretty Please?  
  
Archive: Go ahead, but I wouldn't mind knowing where  
  
*  
  
He ate in silence, the only sound the clinking of his fork against the plate.   
  
He ate in near darkness, guiding the food to his mouth by the sputtering light of two candles, the dim glow of the crescent moon.  
  
He ate mechanically, steadily, no expression marring his face.  
  
Finally, he finished, scooping the bowl clean of the last of the chocolate scratch pudding that had long since been chilled by the breeze coming in through the open bay doors.  
  
Somewhere, a clock struck twelve.  
  
He stared into the flame that danced in the air above the pale green candle, fighting the urge drop his head to his hands.  
  
She wasn't coming.  
  
He'd been telling himself that she wouldn't, that she couldn't, but now that he was faced with the reality of it, he felt a crushing sense of loss.  
  
Well, maybe not loss. He'd already lost. This was more of a three ton mass of disappointment on top of his loss.  
  
The candle flickered beneath his gaze, as if twisting beneath his intensity.  
  
Then it flickered again, this time at the air that swept into the room, tracing the four walls quickly before rushing out again.  
  
He didn't dare look up, to see if she was there.  
  
He stared at the matte surface of the candle holders until he heard the scrape of a chair being drawn back, the muted clanks of silverware being picked up. He slowly looked up, taking in her dark, graceful hands as they reached for the salad, the muscles that danced ever so softly beneath her skin, the curve of her bottom lip. She smiled at him sadly as she saw the surprise etched on his face. You were expecting someone else? she asked him.  
  
He didn't say anything, just watched her as she finally ducked her head a little, breaking the eye contact, turning her attention to the salad as she drizzled a light vinaigrette over it. She ate it slowly, savouring it.  
  
She looked up at him when it was gone, smiling a half smile that he didn't remember seeing from her often. It's been sometime since I ate, she said.  
  
I know, he said finally, finding his voice.  
  
He watched her silently as she ate the macaroni and cheese, the grilled salmon. Neither had ever been his favourite, but this wasn't about him. She didn't seem to notice that they were ice cold.  
  
She pushed aside her plate, looking at him over the small table that separated them. He was filled with the urge to reach out and touch her, but he didn't know all the rules about this.   
  
This isn't like you, she said, searching his gaze.  
  
I know, he said again.  
  
She leaned back in her chair, hands set loosely atop one another on the table. How's everyone holding up? she asked finally.  
  
He looked at her in surprise. He would have expected her to know that better than anyone else.  
  
I won't pry, she said, reading his gaze. And I'd like to hear what you think.  
  
he asked gruffly.  
  
You have never been anything but with me, Logan. Please do not start now, of all times.  
  
He nodded curtly, glancing away from her, then back up again. Honestly, it's just like every other time. It shouldn't be, every time should be different, but we've lost so many that it all starts to blur after a time. We've lost our leader. People need to be led. Hank locked himself in his room for a bit. I think he was imitating the girls, but he came back out before any of us had to go and feed him. He paused, staring into those ever so blue eyes of hers. Remy just up and left, you know. Picked up and went. Didn't even leave a note. Rogue's in shock. She's lost both of her touchstones in one fell swoop. She dropped her gaze a bit, staring at his shoulder. Bishop's going all taciturn on everyone again, so who knows what the hell he's thinkin'. Betsy, she's. . . she's more upset than I can remember her being, and I don't know how to deal with her. Jean's not doing so well, though, he continued, using his voice to force her eyes back up. She hasn't ever learned to adapt to it the way the rest of us have. I'd say that it was the telepathic connections that did it, but Xavier doesn't. . . Jean's in a bad place, Ro, she really is, he said, punching the words through with every ounce of force he could muster into his voice. He knew it was hurting her. He knew that he was hurting her, but he hurt so much himself that he just didn't care.  
  
I'm not particularly worried about Jean. I'm sure that you're doing your best to comfort her! She snapped, her eyes driving into him, through him.  
  
He recoiled a bit, the fire in his thoughts, in his voice, dulled.  
  
They stared at opposite corners of the room. He was half afraid of the reaction if their gazes should cross. He wondered if they would cause an explosion, taking out the rest of those in the mansion.  
  
Then he wondered if he would care if it did.  
  
He felt a cool hand touch his cheek, strong fingers turning his face back towards her.  
  
Look at me, she said softly. He kept his eyes glues to the window frame. Look at me, she said again, her voice firm despite the volume.  
  
That was Ro in a basket, he thought. Strong no matter what image she was presenting.  
  
Look at me, she said, once more, and he couldn't resist it any longer, couldn't resist her any longer. He looked into her eyes, not wanting to see what slumbered there.  
  
But it was just Ororo, sad and searching and somehow commanding. She looked at him so deeply that he could almost shiver.   
  
It wasn't your fault, she said finally.  
  
It wasn't your fault.  
  
And she released him, her hand lingering for an instant on his face in a caress, before dropping to her tea. She sipped it softly, watching him over the top of her cup. She put it down, a sip still left in the bottom, and he reached forwards, lifting it up, bringing it to his lips where she'd been drinking, swallowing the last of it.  
  
It burned his throat, burned it with ice and things left unsaid until it was too late, always too late.  
  
And he put the cup between them, watching silently as she ate the pudding. It had always been her favourite, a vice that few, if any of the others knew about. He watched her throat as she swallowed, the still line of her lashes.   
  
She placed the bowl atop her dish, the cup inside her bowl, the knife and fork and spoon carefully on the rim, cleaning up after herself until all that was left of her presence was a neat little pile that would be taken away to be dealt with.  
  
He caught her wrist as she pushed the plate to between the candles, holding it lightly, waiting for her to meet his eyes again. She over at him, her hair still despite the May Day's breeze that stirred the candle flames, brought the faint scent of coming rain and leaves to his nose.  
  
I'm so sorry, she said, her eyes shimmering as he traced circles on the inside of her wrist with his thumb.  
  
What are you sorry for? he asked gruffly. I was the one always off after Jean. I was the one who didn't catch onto the clues you were sending. I was the one who was too god-damned afraid of change to admit even to myself that I cared about you. I was the one who wasn't. . . he stopped, the words lodged in his throat. I was the one who wasn't. . .  
  
Oh Logan, she said as a single tear rolled down her cheek. He reached out hesitantly to wipe it away, and she caught his hand, holding it against her skin.  
  
She was so cold.  
  
You can't blame yourself, you can't take it all on yourself, she whispered feverently. It wasn't your fault.   
  
And she stood from the table, lowering his hand in hers to the table, and she leaned forward and kissed him, softly. She tasted like snow and pine, the chocolate so faint it teased his senses.  
  
He a tear start to roll down his face, and she kissed that too, and he felt the weight of his sorrow lift. It was still there, and it wouldn't go away soon, but it wasn't the all-consuming force that it had been, filling his mind with her image until he couldn't see people standing three feet in front of him.  
  
She stood, and he released the wrist that he held ever so slowly. She stepped back from the table, the sad little smile reduced to its last legs.  
  
It was the small things, really, it always was. He could have done the little things that she needed, like a hand on the back when she'd won, or a quick kiss when she was down, but he hadn't done any of them.  
  
The wound in her stomach was so little, barely three inches long, but it had been so deep. Even now, when he knew what it had done, he still couldn't believe that the little thing had taken her down. The building had fallen, and when they'd dug her out, she'd still been alive. He hadn't seen anything other than the fact that her only wound had been that little gash.  
  
He just hadn't understood why she hadn't been breathing.  
  
She darted back, kissing him one last time, one second time, harder now, then withdrew quickly. She looked at him again, and he wanted to scream, but then she was gone, leaving only the scent of pine and snow.  
  
Outside, the rain finally started.  
  
He sat well into the morning, staring at the candles, until they flickered out, leaving him alone in the dark.


End file.
